Nightwing: Slave Trade Chapters 1 & 2
by AmylaMacFie
Summary: Nightwing discovers a new faction in the Bludhaven PD...


NIGHTWING: SLAVE TRADE

Chapter 1

He crouched in the shadows, a shadow himself, his narrow eyes gleaming from the darkness. His jawline hardened as he surveyed the scene below him. The dozen or so young people, some up to their late twenties, but others shockingly young, were doing nothing out of the ordinary for this type of gathering. Illegal maybe, considering the marijuana and crack being passed around; but not unusual or especially violent. *_Unless that video game qualifies as violence,_ he thought with a smirk. 

But these were the Crips, and he had seen their handywork before. The destroyed lives. The grieving families. The hatred and the terror and the _tyranny_ of knowing who really controlled this neighborhood.

Nightwing shook his head to clear it, shifting slightly in his spot below the fire escape while staying clear of the window. A twelve-year-old boy walked past the window, carrying a crack pipe and obviously trying to get instructions on how to use it. Two older teens clapped him on the back as if they were his big brothers and led him out of sight.

Nightwing fought back a shudder. _He's just a kid!_ Then he shook his head. _What's with you? It's not like you've never seen this kind of thing before… _But maybe some of them could still be saved.

A healthy dose of pure, stark, raving terror should help.

Uncoiling himself from his hiding place under the fire escape, he pressed himself against the wall beside the open window, palming two tear gas grenades. He tossed the grenades through the window with a flick of his wrist and heard them bounce slightly and roll before the hiss of twin streams of the gas exploded from both grenades. The room was obscured behind the thick fog in a matter of seconds. Gas mask firmly in place, Nightwing slipped through the window as all hell began to break loose.

"What the hell--"

"It's gas! This some kinda sting--"

"#@%$%%^&%#!"

But the clamor died out almost as quickly as it began, replaced by coughing, wheezing, and then silence. Nightwing stood in the middle of the room, the heavy gas wrapping him in a thick fog, and silently counted the still unconscious forms around him. 

Two were missing--

A shadow dancing across the gently wafting tear gas drew Nightwing's attention. Almost before the thought registered in his mind, he had bounded halfway across the room, and none too soon. A volley of automatic gunfire ripped across the wall following his path across the room, spraying plaster in every direction. Nightwing leaped on top of the couch in one bound and then hurled himself into the air. He flung his arm to the side as he tumbled, releasing a shuriken, which hit its mark, a fraction of a second later. A sobbing shriek echoed in the room followed by a clatter as the weapon fell to the linoleum floor, and then a brief second of silence.

He heard a rustle behind him. He spun into a sudden hook kick, slapping his booted foot powerfully across the jaw of whoever was sneaking up on him. There was a dull thump as his attacker hit the floor. Nightwing walked over, stooped down, and removed the kid's gas mask.

Nightwing straightened, scanning the room for any more immediate threats and finding none. Then he focused his attention on the gang's resident leader, lying in an unconscious heap on the floor.

Miguel Julio Luis Sanchez ain't never been afraid of nothing or nobody.

Until now.

Hanging upside down six stories above the ground with nothing but a de-cel cord bridging the gap between the air and the pavement will do that to a person.

"Waddaya want? Jus' tell me! You got it!" he screeched, trying very hard not to move too much. That masked guy in black holding onto the cord didn't look like he liked him too much.

Nightwing shook his head, and Miguel could have sworn that the vigilante rolled his eyes behind the opaque eye shields. "Miguel, you don't have to scream. I'm right here, see? I can hear you fine. Now, I just have a few questions for you."

"Ask! Please! Just get me down from here! I'm scared of heights, man!"

Nightwing cocked an eyebrow. "You don't say." He twitched the cord a little, making Miguel moan in terror. "Okay then. How about: Who supplies your drugs?"

"What?"

"You hard of hearing, Kid? Your drugs. You know, that heroin and crack and all that other poison crap that you sell to kids on the street. Who supplies you? I'm looking for cells. Manufacturers, distributors. Where do you get your product?"

Miguel started shaking, his eyes widening in terror as he saw the cord start to quiver with him "I-I-I don't know, man!" he squawked. "It's not like they tell us, they're all secretive about it, all cloak-and-dagger, meeting through layers--" Nightwing jerked on the cord a little.

"So tell me about those layers. Who's your contact?"

Miguel whimpered, his face turning from beet red to pasty white to purple. "I dunno! I swear, man! On my gramma's grave, I swear!" He choked back a little sob, trying to calm down. "A-a voice on the phone sometimes. But-- usually everything's done online though. They must got this state-o'-the-art stuff, you know, encryption an' all that crap. Complete amin-- anim-- anana--you know, where you don't know who each other are."

Nightwing's eyes narrowed, and he twisted his hold on the de-cel cord, making Miguel sway. "So... you, what, have a Swiss bank account or something?"

"Huh?"

The corner of Nightwing's mouth turned up in a smirk.

"You wanna tell me the truth now?"

"Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to cross-check, um... ahem. The "Serious Surfer Surfboard Store"-- against any businesses owned by Roland Desmond?"

She was trying so hard not to laugh. That made it very difficult for Dick to keep from cracking up himself.

"Yeah, Babs," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Of course they didn't know who their supplier was, like I figured, but that name kept popping up in one form or another when I interrogated their leader. He was a tough one too. Would you believe he lied to me even though he didn't know anything to begin with?"

Barbara shook her head. "He was running on fear, Grayson."

Dick shrugged. "I scared him more, though. But anyway, I think that... um, Surfer, Silly-Serious whatchamacallit is one of Rolly's fronts."

"Who woulda guessed?"

"I think that was the idea. We all know he controls most of the drug business here, but I haven't been able to track down his cells. 'Till now, anyway."

"Anything else?"

Dick sat back, weighing in his mind what had been bothering him for over a week. Someone he had failed once to save...

"I want you to compile a list of teenaged girls... aged 15 to... 18, I guess, who've been checked into local state-run drug rehab centers."

Barbara cocked an eyebrow. "Uh-uh. I'm gonna need more info than that, Boy Wonder, unless you're looking to start Bludhaven's largest club."

"Yeah. Um... gang affiliations... she'd be in treatment for at least heroin addiction. Um--" He paused and chewed his lower lip a little. "Signs of sexual abuse." 

Barbara sat there looking at him for a moment, then turned to another computer at her workstation to start the search. "So," she said, probably trying to sound casual, "What's your interest in this girl?" But she knew something was wrong. _Great,_ Dick thought.

He glanced to the side without realizing it, trying to sound casual as well. "She... she's somebody I helped the other day. Or tried to help. I was too late though."

As soon as he said the words, he wished he hadn't. Now he was going to have to listen to a lecture. But he'd rather get a lecture from Babs than Bruce any day...

Barbara swiveled her chair so she could look at him again with those big emerald eyes, leaned toward the monitor, and said, "Okay. Tell me what happened."

Dick scratched the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to backtrack. "Uh, it wasn't really much to talk about. This girl's just... I guess she's just given up. You know, like she's living for her fix...and it's destroying her life."

Barbara narrowed her eyes, and Dick felt as if she were reading his soul.

"Why is this your fault?"

Dick knew it was ridiculous. How could one man put a complete stop to all evil? And yet, that was his job-- to fight injustice and protect the innocent. He almost rolled his eyes at the cliched phrases, but it really was his job. Self-imposed maybe, but his job nonetheless.

_Oh my God. I am just like him--_

Barbara's soft voice cut into his thoughts. "Look, Dick, you take on a lot in this line of work. Believe me, I know. But you can't let every failure control you, okay? So stop whining about it and move on. Now, I've got the search going, and I've got some other things to do. I'll get with you later, okay?"

Dick smiled at the gentle reproof. "Yeah. Sure Babs."

She smiled back. "All right, Grayson. Talk to you later. I love ya, man." Her eyes widened as she realized what she said, and the vid-screen immediately went black as she severed the connection.

"The Serious Surfer Surfboard Store" was closed, locked down tight, the windows dark. Of course, it was eleven o'clock at night. But nonetheless, Nightwing knew that there was activity, conveniently hidden away from sight. This particular cell, owned by U.S.-exported Cali drug lord James Norton and overseen by local kingpin Roland Desmond, had its focus on distribution. The prepared product was sold en masse to local gangs much like a legitimate distribution company would sell its products to retailers. The gangs bought the drugs at "wholesale" prices, but a high percentage of the profits were cut out for Blockbuster and his operation. In this way, Blockbuster controlled about 95% of Bludhaven's drug trade.

Nightwing touched the side of his mask, increasing the magnification in his starlight lenses, going over in his mind the blueprints of the building that he had received courtesy of Babs. She had already confirmed Blockbuster's ownership of the building after digging through several layers of names and business enterprises, and the original 50's-era blueprints had clinched it for Dick. There was a large basement area that had been covered over and forgotten long before Desmond acquired the building. Perfect for the less-than-savory business that took place there.

Nightwing rose from his hiding place on a rooftop across the street, returning his magnification level back to normal on his lenses but keeping his starlight-amplifying option functioning. Then, jumping and bounding with all the clamor of a feather floating on a breeze, he positioned himself closer to his target, giving himself a thorough view of the building before going in.

But what was that? There was someone on the surf shop's roof. An armed someone, sticking to the shadows and speaking quietly into a two-way radio, apparently playing sentry.

Immediately, movement below caught his eye. Four men began converging on the place from all directions, in utter silence. Nightwing's starlight lenses let him make out three more shadowy figures strategically positioned in a wide radius around the building. All armed.

What was this? A sting? Could be a rival gang, he thought, but these guys seemed to be professionals. Nightwing crept closer to the building, sticking to the concealing shelter of the shadows as much as possible. If this was a sting, he didn't need to get in the middle of it. The last thing he needed was to get in the crossfire of another shootout with the cops. But if it wasn't a sting…

They were inside now, silent as ghosts. Nightwing inched closer, straining to see through the windows. The visible movement inside told him that two sentries were left guarding the ground-level interior while the rest went below, weapons cocked and ready.

Something was not right here.

An instant later, the shooting started.

Some kind of basement trapdoor burst open from the floor and four people—three men and a woman, all unarmed as far as he could see—came scrambling out. Their faces were etched with pure terror, confusion, and death-fear.

The sentries inside the building turned on the escapees as they came up from the basement and opened fire. The gunshots were muffled with silencers, quick, deadly, and silent.

The inside of the store lit up to a brilliant, blinding white light in front of Nightwing's eyes—muzzle flash amplified several times by his night vision lenses. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut, and switched off the nightvision.

What the hell was going on here? Nightwing was sprinting toward the building before he even realized he was moving. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, Oh God…" It was a prayer.

Stealth just flew out the window. 

The sentry on the roof suddenly found himself eating tar, sprawling forward from a massive kick to the head, his weapon clattering noisily across the roof. Grabbing the edge of the roof, Nightwing flipped and crashed feet first through the window, setting off an explosion of shattered glass throughout the room. He rolled and tumbled out of the way, closely followed by a hail of bullets. Throwing his arm to the side, he released a pair of shurikens that disarmed two of the men.

Somebody came at him with the butt end of an automatic weapon. With a violent, lightning-fast twist, Nightwing had the gun in his hand just before flinging it to the floor and palm-striking the guy in the nose. Without a break in beat, he thrust his booted foot straight out behind him, smacking firmly into someone's midsection. Then he was in the air again, using the walls and register counter and shelves as springboards, tumbling through the room as he avoided another shower of deadly bullets.

He could hardly move in here. The store was cramped and cluttered; no room to maneuver—he had to get out of here.

He leapt on top of a heavily-loaded shelf and dove head-first through the broken window, doubling up and whipping his body into a flip so he could land on his feet. He could hear a deep-throated voice hollering, "Take him down! Take him down! We can't afford to have any witnesses!" The voice began cursing, and Nightwing knew that he must have thrown a mighty big wrench in someone's plans…

There were more outside! The three extra sentries he had seen… He had almost hurtled right into them.

The men moved forward, raising their weapons, preparing for pursuit. But Nightwing wasn't so accommodating. He threw himself into the air, spun, and struck out with his foot, bringing down the two directly in front of him. He was already running when his feet hit the ground. He needed to get to the rooftops, switch the advantage. And what about those people in the store… if there was some chance they were still alive, he needed to get them help.

What kind of hornet's nest did he just shake up?

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"Does she have _anyone?"_

"We're still trying to track down her family. Same old story. A runaway. Says she's been living on the streets since she was fourteen. We have no idea who donated the money towards her recovery—three thousand dollars is a lot of money for some people. But, anyway, she got sent over here yesterday and spent the day under anesthesia during withdrawal. They picked her up and checked her in to some government-run institution two days ago after an anonymous call to the police… she was about to be gang raped. Or, she was about to _let_ herself be gang raped."

Dr. Stafford took a shaky breath to push back her mild shock. She had heard of this kind of thing before—it was her line of work, after all-- but it never made it any easier to absorb. 

"We got the opiates cleaned out of her system while she was under anesthetic, and gave her the Naltrexone and Naloxone, so she's over the physical withdrawal. She's effectively a ward of the state now, at least until we find her parents, but we're giving her a room here to recover in. But she's not taking to it mentally. I don't think she wants to get better." The nurse looked Dr. Stafford in the eye. "She has to want to turn her life around for these treatments to work. Hopefully you can help in that department."

Dr. Stafford, staff psychologist for the Mercy Streets Rehab Clinic, nodded slowly. Sometimes she hated her job… but she knew she could never give it up.

Nightwing saw a fire escape ladder and leapt for it, latching on and scrambling up. He could see his new friends waiting below, taking aim, preparing to fire—

He threw himself over the edge of the roof and pressed low as the cement exploded around him in tiny bits of shrapnel. He rolled and pounced to his feet, staying low.

One of them was on the roof now. The man, dressed in black with his head and half his face encased in a visored helmet, leveled his weapon at Nightwing. "Don't move! Stay right there!"

Nightwing stopped with his back to the man and turned his head slowly, a gleam in his eye. He could see the guy's other team members scaling the fire escape toward the rooftop.

Nightwing's arm shot out like a lightning bolt and suddenly the gunman was helplessly entangled in a bolo, the tiny marble-sized weights on either end holding him fast in the de-cel strength cord. Nightwing was there in an instant, and the gun went clattering across the rooftop…

The other team members were on the roof, scrambling over the edge, swinging their guns into position. Nightwing snatched the guy's mask off, glancing down, instantly committing the face to memory—

He knew him.

The girl was sitting on the floor beside her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, her back against the wall, rocking back and forth slightly. Dr. Stafford quietly closed the door behind her and sat on the floor in front of her. She just sat there in silence, for a moment, partially observing, but mostly just being _there_. 

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft. "Kind of a bland-looking room, huh, Amber?"

The girl turned her glassy stare on Dr. Stafford for a moment before answering, "S'okay, I guess."

Dr. Stafford nodded. "Yeah, I guess it is better than some of the places you've been. Am I right?"

Amber shrugged. "I'm alive."

"Yes, you are."

Amber looked away, shifting slightly. "Did you want something?"

Dr. Stafford crossed her legs, pushing her legal pad to the side. She had insisted the first session take place in Amber's room so she could give the girl some small sense of control, of "turf rights". To reinforce an idea that the girl could regain control of her life.

But she needed a friend too. Dr. Stafford answered, "I just thought you might want someone to talk to."

Amber narrowed her eyes and glared up at Dr. Stafford through strands of dark blonde hair. "Cut that 'I'm your friend, I feel your pain' crap, Doc. You're just here to make your paycheck."

Dr. Stafford shrugged and hopped to her feet. "Yep. You're right. I have to eat. So help me put food on my table. Talk to me."

Amber shook her head in disgust. 

Dr. Stafford crossed her arms and turned away, silently, her thoughts swirling. Finally, she turned back around and prodded, "So, where's your family?"

Amber shot back, "They're in jail. That costumed creep beat them up, and the cops came and threw 'em in a cage."

"They're not your family, Amber. You know what I meant."

Amber looked down, her hair dropping over her eyes again. She was quiet for a time before she said, "I don't have a family."

__

A cop! He's a cop… Matt Freedman—

Nightwing leapt from the rooftop to the adjoining one, the gun-toting Rambo team hot on his heels. It was going to be extremely difficult to lose these guys.

__

That was him. That was Freedman. He'd seen the guy plenty of times around the station—

He took a flying leap into the air, grabbing onto some scaffolding and scuttling up a ways before diving headfirst toward a nearby church…

Freedman was a quiet sort. Thirty-ish. Seemingly dedicated. Dick had almost believed him to be one of that rare breed—an honest Bludhaven cop.

A de-cel cord shot out of Nightwing's gauntlet, hooked onto the cross on the church, and whipped him into a tight spiral around the church's steeple. He landed cat-like on the sloped roof and was moving again, instinctively ducking his head at the muffled sound of more silenced gunfire—

What?!? Two more of these guys suddenly came from behind the bell tower, boxing him in with the other four still behind him! They had to have second-guessed him, circling around to close in on him.

__

Not good, not good…

Nightwing leapt at the nearest man and disarmed him, taking him down with a swift sweep of his leg behind the knees. 

Immediately he received a stunning blow to his back from somewhere behind him.

He stumbled forward, his eyes rolling back, black spots dancing around the edges of his vision… he found himself flying… No! Falling!

He flung both arms out and grabbed the uppermost branches of a tree. The branches snapped, and he tumbled downward through the leafy clutches, hearing gunfire, knowing that any second he could be hit—

He landed hard on the ground, rolling unsteadily to his feet and crashing through the front door of the church, praying to God it was empty…

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"What happened to them?" Dr. Stafford asked gently. "Your family, I mean."

"I'm what happened to them. Trust me, Doc, they're better off without me."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"Two years ago."

"You ran away?"

"Yeah. I thought it was a good idea at the time."

"Why didn't you go back?"

Amber laughed-- a short, harsh, bitter sound. "You have got to be kidding. You obviously don't know me, Lady, or you wouldn't ask that."

The church wasn't empty. A distraught older man wearing a clerical collar met Nightwing in the foyer.

"What in heaven's name is going on out there? Did I hear gunfire?" He gave a double take as it suddenly seemed to register with him that a man in a form-fitting kevlar uniform and a mask was standing in front of him.

Nightwing pushed the pastor ahead of him, urging him forward. "You don't wanna know. Find someplace to hide. Anyone else here?"

"No… I called the police—"

"Good. Now get out of sight. I'm not sure what they'll do—"

The distinct, piercing sound of approaching sirens interrupted him. The pastor paused, appearing unsure of what to do, and Nightwing motioned for him to hide. The old man complied, and Nightwing quickly climbed up into the rafters, crawling back and melding into the shadows.

Someone pounded on the front door. "Police!"

__

Very intelligent, Nightwing thought. _They have a shootout that could easily escalate to a hostage situation, and all they can do is bang on the door and let the whole world know they're here…_

The police came in of their own accord, found the pastor, and took a statement, completely oblivious to the masked vigilante suspended in the rafters above their heads. The police assured the pastor that it was probably a car-full of drunk teenagers firing into the air, that there was nobody on the roof, that it was perfectly quiet around the church, even though the pastor insisted that he had heard the gunfire _above _his head, what had to have been _silenced_ gunfire that was close enough that he could make it out, and there was definitely _something_ going on, but no, said the cop, kids do this kind of thing quite a bit, there's actually a technical name for it, "child-boredom syndrome" and it was really nothing to worry about, just be sure to duck and stay away from windows if it happens again… Nightwing found himself fighting the urge to clock the idiot over the head. 

But, in the midst of the conversation below him, a realization began to form in Nightwing's mind.

Apparently the Rambo team hadn't wanted any encounters with the cops.

Of course, that could be because they _were_ the cops… 

To Be Continued…


End file.
